


Vir Lath Sa’vunin: Valthorn’s Story

by NeverGoodbye



Series: Dragon Age: Breynna's Canon [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverGoodbye/pseuds/NeverGoodbye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deep in the wilds, a young Dalish elf makes a promise to love his childhood companion forever. Throughout his life, through upheavals and turns of fate alike, that promise endures and inspires him to discover the depths to which love can inspire and destroy the very fabric of who we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally penned for NaNoWriMo 2010, this story has sat half-revised for over a year. In rereading it, I find that I like the story, despite its flaws and despite that fact that it may never reach a truly "finished" form. Those caveats aside, I have decided to share it with the community in the hopes that you, readers, might see past its flaws as well and find enjoyment in the story: It is set in the world of Dragon Age, and is somewhat of a parallel story to In A Warden's Wake, however it is entirely its own being with mostly original characters and expanded settings of my own imaging. I invite you into the world of my little elfling with a very big capacity for perseverance and love.
> 
> Additional Note: Archive warnings are used only in the broadest sense and are generally mild instances throughout. I've added specific notes to the beginnings of chapters that could contain inflammatory context for some readers.

“I am the Witch of the Wilds!” Jaena’s clear voice called out over the brambles and tree branches, “Watch as I turn into a magnificent eagle and soar!”

Valthorn watched with horror as the girl swan dived off the grassy hill crest. She dove deftly, gracefully tucking her body under her at the last moment so she landed with barely a disturbance to the pile of leaves on the forest floor. He ran over to her side, barely breathing until he saw her emerge, laughing, from the underbrush.

His concern was lost in a tumble of giggles and soon the children were laughing heartily at her reckless abandon. Then in a flash she was off again, racing through the forest with him close at her heels. They knew the forest trails intimately and could follow its twists and turns, fallen logs and caverns practically with their eyes closed. It was the way they spent every free moment of every day that they could. Two small elves, enraptured by childhood, dancing through a wooded world that was all their own.

“Caught ya!” he yelled as he leaped down from an overhanging tree branch. His hands caught her shoulders and pulled her down with his weight until she gave in, laughing with delight.  They rolled to a stop in a soft grassy area, both children gleefully panting for air. She tried to get up but he pinned her down grinning with victory.

“You wouldn’t be so mean to me if you knew what I could do,” she said.

“Oh, is that so?”

“Yes, it is. It just so happens that I’m a witch.”

“Not all that again! Next thing you’ll tell me is that Flemeth herself has been teaching you tricks when the elders aren’t looking.” She blew a puff of air into his face from his jest. “Well prove it then. If you’re really a Witch of the Wilds, turn me to stone so you can escape!”

She wriggled her fingers at him but nothing happened. “I can’t! I don’t know how to control it yet…”

“Ha! I knew you couldn’t do it because you’re not a real witch!”

She writhed against his grasp as she tried to escape. He held fast. She took a deep breath and channeled all of her inner energy, focusing on Valthorn and his smug expression. She imagined a bright blue spark leaping to life until it wasn’t just in her mind anymore.

_Zaa-aa-ap!_

“You… you shocked me,” he stammered, a glimmer of awe in the accusation as well.

“I’m sorry!” She said. “I didn’t know if it would really work. I never made one that big before. I’ve never even showed anyone else. I just discovered… I mean, sometimes it just happens…”

“Do it again,” he whispered, the pain entirely forgotten now.

She cocked her head, trying to ascertain whether he was serious or not. He was. She took a deep breath and pushed a lock of her reddish brown hair out of her face. Closing her eyes, she rubbed her fingertips together and felt the energy spark into being once again. The concentration was written over her whole small being: the rigidity in her hands and arms, eyes closed, her chest unmoving with the breath she held. When she opened her eyes again, there were little lashes of blue light that flickered between her fingers. There were there for only a moment and then they winked out of sight. She took another deep breath, exhausted.

“You really _are_ a witch,” Valthorn said breathlessly. She watched him intensely before they both broke into wide, toothy grins.

“Just a little one,” she admitted.

“Well I think you’re the best elf witch ever!” He bounded up onto a fallen log and shouted, “Our enemies beware, or the mighty Jaena shall strike you down as they stand!” They laughed at his dramatics as he waved his arms and made crackling sounds, pretending to cast enormous storms and lightning bolts all around her.

“Valthorn, stop it! Get down from there!”

He jumped down and stood beside her, anxious over her suddenly serious expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone – _anyone_ , Val.” She wouldn’t meet his gaze now. “You know we’re not supposed to have magic. Only the Keeper…”

He laughed off her concern by putting an arm around her. “Jaena, of course I won’t tell anyone. How could you think I would do anything to jeopardize you? You mean the world to me.”  
  
She smiled shyly as they started walking through the woods again. “I know you wouldn’t. I just… I’m scared about what will happen if the elders knew. They might make me leave the camp – that happens sometimes, you know. They might make me… stop being a witch.”  
  
“Can they do that?”  
  
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But there must be some way they control who can have and use the power of magic.”

He turned to her, taking both her hands into his own. “Well, I don’t care what anyone says. You can be _my_ witch forever, and I promise that I will protect you with every breath I have.” His bold statement seemed to touch on something older and wiser than he, something eternal and life-changing. It was a promise he didn’t fully understand but was willing to undertake all the same. “If you want to, that is.”

“I do,” she promised back without hesitating at all.  
  
He grinned. “Then we have nothing to worry about.”

  
***

  
The days gave way to nights, and the weeks gave way to months. And whether the woods were full of sunshine, rain, or snow, the two elves were there beside each other to learn of the mysteries it held and to love one another. They held their secret between them, privately giggling and delighting in it but ever vigilant not to reveal its presence to other. They loved the privilege that it gave them; it set them apart and it strengthened their own bond.

And secret it was until one day late in autumn, the year before Valthorn was to become an apprentice hunter. Becoming an apprentice was the first step to becoming an adult in the clan and Valthorn was preoccupied with the thought of it, as nearly every adolescent in camp was. Jaena was preoccupied herself these days but not for the apprenticeship she was still too young for. She had convinced the master crafter of the camp to create a magic staff for her and it was all she could think of or talk to Valthorn about for the last two days.

“He probably just told you he’d make you a staff to get him to leave you alone,” Valthorn grumbled as Jaena ran up ahead of him. “How do you know there even _is_ Ironbark out here? It’s just a legend.”

She skipped along farther ahead as if she hadn’t heard him. Together they had wandered farther into the old forest than he could remember being before. He glanced up at the canopy of trees above, the filtering light from the sun growing dimmer by the minute. _He could be sitting by the fire with the older boys right now, admiring and practicing with their bows,_ he thought. But instead he was shivering out somewhere in the woods tagging along beside Jaena on a fool’s quest.

“It’s out here – it has to be!” Jaena called back to him. “He wouldn’t just let children wander off into unknown dangers… not unless he knew it was possible to find.”

“Well I’m sure he didn’t think you’d really go after it!” Valthorn shouted. She turned around, hurt, and Valthorn caught the glimmer of something guilty in her eyes. His own eyes narrowed with understanding. “He wouldn’t have let you go after it unless he had reason to believe you’d find it. Not unless he knew you actually could do spells… which he doesn’t, right?”

She looked at the ground. The sound of the insects buzzing in the underbrush nearby suddenly seemed loud in his ears. He repeated the question and moved closer to her when she still didn’t answer. “No one knows you have magic except me. Right, Jaena?”

Her bright green eyes glimmered in twilight. “I might have showed him a little spell. But it was just little! And just because I wanted him to help me.”

“ _Aneth ara_! Jaena, what were you thinking?!”

“I… I wasn’t!” She sank down to her knees, recoiling from his anger. “I’m sorry, Val. I’m sorry!”

“Three years Jaena!” The words came suddenly tumbling out, one over another. “For two years I’ve kept your secret! Even when it felt like I was bursting with it, I never said a word! Now you go and tell the craftsman – of all people – just so he’d give you what? A… new toy? And you’re _sorry_??”

He grabbed her arm and pulled her to face him, tears shining in her eyes. “How long do you think it’ll be before the whole camp knows? He’s probably off telling the Keeper right now!” Then the full force of these implications fell on him. He dropped her arm and stared down the empty forest trail. In his mind’s eye, he saw the adults of the camp circling the Keeper in that moment; telling them that Jaena was a danger to the rest of the elves and that Jaena must leave. Fear gripped his heart. “What if you have to leave our tribe? They _take mages_ , Jaena. And we never see them again! Is that what you want? Is it?!”

“No!” She shouted back at him. “No! Of course I don’t want to leave. I just…. The magic’s getting stronger, Val. I don’t know how much longer I can hide it.” Then she added, so quietly he could barely hear her, “I don’t think I _want_ to hide it anymore.”

“Fine, then. If you want to go be a mage, then go.” He let go of her arm and started back the way they came. Anger glinted maliciously in his eyes as he called over his shoulder. “I’m not helping you destroy your life with us here. If you want your Ironbark so badly, you can find it yourself.”

“Val, wait!” She crouched there, stunned. It took a minute for her to realize that her friend was _actually leaving_ – leaving her alone here in the wood. She staggered to her feet and ran to catch up to him. Her hands tugged at his arms, but he turned away. He didn’t want to hear her begging him to stay and help her. When he would not stop, she started crying harder, telling him she was sorry, so sorry, and please – _please! –_ wait.

Little blue licks of lightning flickered into being, lacing around her fingertips and racing down her arms. A cloud of static formed and rose above her head, stretching up into the tree branches and crackling the dry twigs. The lightning sparked more fervently as her distress grew. When she reached for him again, a blue bolt struck out and hit his shoulder.

He cried out in pain and whirled around, seething. He saw her standing away from him, huddled and miserable, tears streaked down her face and her breathing racked by sobs. The sight of her in such disarray finally broke the hold of his anger. _His beautiful Jaena_ , he thought. _What have I done?_

He moved closer to her, arms outstretched and remorseful. She closed her eyes and willed the lightning to disperse. With some difficulty, she succeeded. He wrapped his arms around her, comforting her and apologizing over and over. They cried together there in a chilly wooded evening. “I’m just so afraid of losing you, Jaena.”

She nodded her head against his chest and he tucked a reddish brown braid behind her ear. “I’m still your elf-witch,” she whispered. “Right?” At this, he found a way to smile.

“Always,” he said as he leaned down and put his lips on her forehead. It was a soft, kind act and it sent a thrill down their spines though the stirrings of love and lust were still comfortable years away.

But as he held her, there was a rustle nearby. He turned toward the noise, alarmed, and out of the shadows around them armored templars appeared. There were three of them, wielding large, gleaming swords. Without giving himself think to think he grabbed Jaena by the arm and shouted for her to run with him. They took off down the forest path as fast as they could.

They didn’t get far.

In a single burst of will, the templars seized Jaena’s magic and she crumpled to the ground, jerking Valthorn from his pace. He stumbled and nearly fell as her suddenly dead weight knocked him off balance. The shock left her breathless and gasping on the forest floor. Valthorn shook her shoulders, wild with terror but she could barely move, let alone continue to escape with him. Unmoved by the children’s desperation, the templars moved in. One grabbed Jaena by the arm while another grabbed Valthorn, breaking their embrace.

“Jaena!” Valthorn screamed, reaching for her still as they carried her away. He struggled against the thick metal armor but the templar’s hold was too strong for him to resist. The knight looked down at the boy from behind his helm. In a moment of compassion he lowered Valthorn back on the ground. “Go home, little elf,” he said.

But there is no home without Jaena.

The templar turned to follow the others but Valthorn rushed at him instead. He pushed against the thick armor and hit his small fists against it, heedless of the pain or the consequences of his actions. Valthorn only felt what was in his heart as he yelled and begged for his friend’s return. When the templar regarded him again, he had sympathy for the youth.

The templar called out to his companions and then crouched down to talk to Valthorn. He tried to tell the elf that they were actually helping his friend; she would be safe and grow up well in their care. Though the knight meant well, his speech did nothing to still the racing fear in Valthorn’s heart. His distrust of humans – especially armored humans who abducted his best friend in the world – outweighed any singular comfort of the templar’s words. Not to be dissuaded, the knight took off his helm, revealing himself to be youthful himself, with short brown hair and expressive eyes. In this way Valthorn finally found a truth he could understand. It was written plainly in the man’s sympathetic eyes: there was no choice but to accept. Alone against the knights and the encroaching dark, he had no chance of saving Jaena. With this finality, Valthorn began to cry, heartsick and far from home.

The templar stood and wiped his eyes quickly. After a moment’s consideration, he placed a gauntlet carefully on Valthorn’s head and whispered an incantation. The distraught child slumped and fell into the templar’s outstretched arm. He picked up Valthorn and looked upon the boy’s face, tear-streaked and flushed with despair. Valthorn was breathing deeply, quietly, at peace in his oblivion. In an act of unusual tenderness, the templar carried the child, safely cradled in his arms, back the way the two elves had come following the children’s footprints on the muddy forest path.

***

It was late into the night when the templar entered the Dalish camp, Valthorn still in his arms. The templar’s magic has long since worn off but Valthorn, miserable and exhausted, had not attempted to free himself from the knight’s arms. A ways out from the camp they encountered the night watch scouts and were guided back to Valthorn’s home aravel.

The knock on her door brought Valthorn’s mother in an instant. She’d been awake late into the night waiting for her son’s return. Upon seeing him cradled limply in the templar’s arms Delilah feared that he must be dead. The cry stirred Valthorn from his fitful sleep and he rubbed his eyes groggily. Delilah took him into her arms nearly smothering him with her relief.

Only after her initial shock wore off did Delilah start to realize the gravity of what had happened. Two children had entered the woods and only one returned. Knowing how tightly bound the two children were to each other, she was suddenly fearful of whatever occurred that tore them apart. The templar stood patiently apart from them and she knew that his presence was the answer, though he was kind enough to remain silent until she was ready to hear it.

She intended to take Valthorn inside the araval and put him to bed before discussing the matter further but he refused. He squirmed against her grasp, intent on staying awake and hearing what she heard. “I want to talk to the templar, too,” he whined. “Jaena was _my_ friend and he took her away! Make him bring her back!”

“Fine, Val.” She sighed, exasperated and as tired as he was. “But you stay right here on the steps and _don’t move_. I’ll be back soon.” Her eyes were fierce now and dared him to disobey her. He didn’t, instead tucking his legs up beside his chest and leaned against the door. He fought against the drowsiness that tried to pull him under again.

He watched her walk back to where the templar was waiting. He was disappointed when they talked in hushed tones too low for him to catch any of their conversation. After a  few minutes his mother left to fetch the Keeper. The templar glanced over to Valthorn and a sense of dread and embarrassment rose in his chest. He was older. He was supposed to watch out for Jaena but look what had happened instead. The longer the adults talked the more he convinced himself that he was the cause of their anger. He kept replaying the events in his head and hearing Jaena’s anguished cries for him to help her. If he hadn’t been so quick to anger… if he hadn’t made her so upset… There were a hundred things he wanted to do differently in retrospect. Valthorn would have given anything in that moment to reverse the events of the night and have Jaena here beside him once more.

After what seemed like an eternity to him, the templar bowed and began to leave. Delilah and the Keeper spoke a moment more before she returned to her son. She picked him up and carried him inside to his bed. He buried his face against her warmth, clinging desperately to something that would ease the ache of shame and loss inside of him. She held him close but she felt distant, her face lined with worry.

She laid him down in his bed and pulled the warm blanket up around him. The pull of sleep was so strong he could barely understand the slowed world around him. He looked up at her sadly. “Are they going to bring Jaena back soon?”

Delilah blinked, trying to form the right words to say but found she had none. “No, Val,” would have to suffice. He could not object to this any further because, under his mother’s watchful gaze, he had fallen fast asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Valthorn lived the next few days feeling much like a ghost of himself and took no part in the happiness and the tranquil pace of tribal life. He felt like the world was moving around him but not for him. Life was what other people did – others who were not heartbroken and miserable.  He was vaguely aware of the selfishness and self-indulgence of this attitude, but he couldn’t muster the strength of will to change it. He missed Jaena; that was all he could care about.

His mother attempted to comfort him the best she could but it was obvious to all that Valthorn only desired solitude. She fretted for him but respected his grief and kept a watchful eye out for him while he mourned. She understood a part of his loss. She had loved little Jaena almost like her own daughter and felt her absence keenly. She kept expecting to hear the children’s laughter outside their home’s window or hear their footsteps tearing through the fallen leaves outside. Her heart grieved for their loss and for Valthorn’s hurt but she had lived longer, seen more, and she accepted these events with a serenity that Valthorn could not. Delilah knew that this was, at its heart, an eventuality that had merely come due. She had had her own suspicions about Jaena’s abilities after all, but knowing didn’t make it easier when the time came. She dealt with it in her own way, focusing her attentions on her son. It was Valthorn’s safety and happiness she cared about more than anything else and whatever she could do, she would.

Delilah returned to the aravel one afternoon to find Valthorn sitting at their table. He looked up at her with a hurt expression. “Where were you? I was worried.”  
  
She smiled ever so slightly and walked over to him, kissing his forehead. “I was discussing an important matter with the Keeper, dear. How are you feeling?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Hungry.”

“Oh good, you’re still alive then I see.” She turned away from Valthorn’s pouty expression and began to gather items from the cabinet to prepare dinner for them. “Rabbit stew, ok? I think there’s enough left, and some bread here.”

Valthorn shrugged again but Delilah wasn’t looking in his direction. She took his silence as consent and prepared the meal. Her conversation with the Keeper replayed in her mind as she worked and she debated how to explain the decision she had come to. She placed two bowls on the table and Valthorn began to poke uninterestedly at his.

“Valthorn, I need you to listen to me a moment,” she began. He watched her without answering. “I know how much you miss Jaena. No, I do… because I felt the same way when your father died. The world seemed to just… stop. Nothing mattered to me anymore without him beside me.”

Valthorn put his spoon down, his full attention on his mother now. He didn’t remember ever hearing her speak of his father before and understood slightly in that moment what the loss had meant to her.  
  
“It wasn’t fair for me not to tell you this before,” she said. “But it was so difficult for me to relive those days. Thinking of him makes my heart hurt again like it was only yesterday he died. But death… well, it’s hard to understand when your heart is being ripped apart, I know… but death is only an extension of life. And life is a wonderful thing because it continues on no matter what is thrown before us.”

“What do you mean?”  
  
“I mean that… we never really say goodbye to those we love – their memory lives within us. And in some ways, it’s better because we remember all the things that made us love them and all the wonderful things that made them special. These memories live without any blemishes or regrets. We hold them in our hearts and they live forever.” She paused and caressed his cheek. “As for your father... well, he lives in you. I see him looking out every time I look into your eyes. You feel his love inside you, don’t you? You feel his love through me?”

Valthorn nodded slowly. “Sometimes I feel... I think he watches over me sometimes.”

“Oh, Valthorn, I love you so much. Never forget that.”

He promised that he wouldn’t. She reached into a small velvety bag and pulled out a small gold locket. The metal was intricately carved and sculpted to create the general shape of a heart. In florets across the face there were tiny gemstones inlaid in the gold that caught the light in a hundred different ways so that the surface of the locket seemed ever-changing, fluid as water. “This was your father’s spirit-keeper. I’ve kept it safe for you since his death and I think it is time for you to have it now.”

She opened the delicate clasp and hung it around Valthorn’s neck. It was cool against his skin and he loved the tiny weight of it pressed against him. She placed a hand over the locket which rested just below his heart. “The spirits of those you love and who love you lie inside your heart and in your head. They are as real as the energy you give to their memories. And whenever you feel like life is too hard, whenever you feel like your own spirit is being extinguished… you think of them and you give them everything you have. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Kinda,” he said, cocking his head and concentrating. “You’re saying that love will always be with me; no matter what happens. If I concentrate on the love in my heart, I can survive.”

“Not only survive, Valthorn, but truly _live_. Love is the only way to actually live. Give it the strength of your convictions and it will forever lead you onward along your path.”

One morning not long afterward, Delilah raised Valthorn from his bed. She handed him a leather satchel and took him to pack what was most important to him. From his belongings, he gathered up some carved stones, a few books, and a twig-doll he had made for Jaena. He didn’t dare ask his mother why he was doing this for she was in a quiet, pensive mood that demanded only obedience from him.

Outside, although it was quite early, the others of the camp were already awake. Delilah and Valthorn made their way through the crowd as Delilah hugged and tearfully said goodbye to her dearest friends. Valthorn stood awkwardly amongst the other children. They watched him cautiously and a few asked him what was going on. He had no answers for them so only shrugged in response. Why _were_ they leaving? What wasn’t his mother telling him? He was anxious and afraid and when his mother called him he left the others with little more than a wave in their direction.

And that was that. They were walking away, leaving the camp he had known all his life behind. Like a farewell of its own the clouds had opened on them and it started to rain. He tugged on his mother’s arm but her face and eyes were fixed on the path ahead. She offered some vague comforts as they trudged on throughout the day but mostly she seemed sad, lost in the unreachable world of her own thoughts. Valthorn’s pack became heavy and his shoes damp and uncomfortable but his mother persevered without complaining so he did likewise.

The rests they took were short and far between. It was full dark around them before they stopped for evening dinner and his mother made a small campfire. Valthorn huddled around it, cold and unhappy, as he ate the sandwich his mother had given him. She checked on his health and strength and gave him the newer of the two sleeping bags she brought. Valthorn asked her again why they were leaving or where they were going but to these questions she evaded every question he asked.

All around them, the forest twittered with its usual activity, heedless to the rain. But Valthorn couldn’t rest. He listened to the rain drops filter through the tree branches and patter lightly onto the waxed canvas Delilah had spread over top of them. She didn’t seem able to sleep either and after awhile she sat next to Valthorn and took him into her arms. She held him until he fell into a restless sleep, but for the first time her arms held no comfort for him.

  
***

  
“Sir, I’m looking for an inn!”

Valthorn banged his fist against the heavy door again but there was still no answer. Door after door he had knocked on and they all stood silent and cold before him. He sighed and walked to the next door. To his surprise, the door opened a couple inches and a pale, drawn face peered out at him from relative darkness.

“Whatdya want, boy?”

“An inn,” Valthorn said. “My mother is sick and we need to rest.”

The man glanced over Valthorn’s head toward the woman sitting on the stone wall for couple yards away. Even from a distance he could see a dark flush on her cheeks and her eyes had an unpleasant sunken quality to them. The man grunted and turned his attention into his own home once more, a distant din growing closer.

“The inn’s up the street and to the left,” the man said motioning quickly with one hand. “There’s a big wooden sign out front. Mind you, not the small brown one, that’s the smithy. It’s the big one with a mug on it.”

“ _Abelas_! I mean, thank you, sir. I’ve been trying all afternoon to find one. Thank you!” Valthorn trotted a few steps back toward his mother before stopping and turning back to the man. “Do you know if there a doctor–“

“Look boy, I’m real sorry, but I should go.” He glanced nervously behind him again. “It’s just that the missus… well, I wouldn’t like her to find me associating with a… a knife-ear, ya know.”

Valthorn frowned; the man had helped him all he was likely to. He bowed quickly and began walking back to where his mother was resting. At the last moment, the man called to him.

“’Ey, boy! I… I’m sorry.” He stepped out onto the stoop of the little house and rummaged in his pockets. “You look down on your luck and I sure ain’t helping by turning ya out so quick. Here…” He held his hand out to Valthorn and in it were two five-silver pieces. “It ain’t much but it’ll pay the night for you at that inn. Go on, take it.”

Valthorn tentatively reached out for the coin. “Thank you, sir, that’s very kind of you.”

 “You’re welcome lad. Now take your mum and go. Best not to be out after dark seeing as how you’re both…” The man looked ill at ease, a comment resting on the tip of his tongue that he apparently thought better of. “Well, you’re not in the best health. Ya need rest, aye.”

Valthorn tentatively agreed. The man watched him for a moment, sympathy filling up his gaze. Then he nodded a goodbye and disappeared behind the heavy wooden door once more. The elf stowed the coins safely into his traveling purse and hurried back to his mother’s side. Together they made their way to the inn where at last they could rest.

Unfortunately for them both his mother’s health continued to worsen. She laid in bed during the day and Valthorn did his best to keep himself busy, sometimes venturing out in search of food to eat and to refill their water skins. He sometimes caught sight of the human men hanging around the hallway outside their room when he returned. It made him uneasy, the way they leered at him. He was thankful when he could shut the door behind him and curl up beside his mother.

The came a night not long after that Delilah made one last decision for Valthorn – she sent him away. She had been so frail and weak when she called him to her side. Physically weak but steadfast and firm with him. She told him in no uncertain terms what she wanted him to do. She had been dying; he knew that in retrospect, though he had convinced himself that it hadn’t been so at the time. There must have been some other reason that she told him to take the satchel of food, the small pouch of coin, all his clothes and to run.

She had been particularly insistent about this point. He could still see her sad eyes as she spoke. “Run, Valthorn. You must never come back to this place. Promise me.” She had held his hand while she made him swear it. Somehow he understood they didn’t have much choice in the matter. He needed to do what he must to survive.

He hadn’t known where to go of course and he didn’t know where he was now. But he had traveled quickly, quietly, and stayed out of sight. Now he found himself hiding amongst a pile of broken, discarded boxes. It wasn’t much but he was safe for now.

 The wind kicked up stronger making the chilly night air even colder. Valthorn curled up tighter in his resting spot suddenly wishing that he had something more significant than just his traveling cloak wrapped around him. He even could have brought his mother’s cloak, but he hadn’t been thinking straight. He hadn’t been planning ahead. He had only been scared. Thinking of his mother brought tears to his eyes and he wiped his nose and mouth with the cloth.

The satchel of food contained only a few crusts of bread left. It was almost a good thing that he had no appetite. He was crying again, miserable unbidden tears. His fingers worked in through the fabric of his shirt and found the little locket and wrapped his fingers tightly around it. So tightly that it hurt but he didn’t let go. He had a mad desire to somehow find his way back through the streets and to the inn, convinced he’d see her standing in the doorway to greet him with open arms. He didn’t move; he had promised and he trusted her. He trusted his memory of her about all else.

It was those memories that finally slowed his rush of tears. He thought of what she had told him before they had even left their camp. _The spirits of those you love and who love you lie inside your heart and in your head. They are as real as the energy you give to their memories._ That night Valthorn clung to his memories as hard as he could. He wanted to memorize every detail of his mother he could possibly remember so that as the days went by, she could still live inside of him. She could be there to see him grow up in spirit and as a part of his soul.

  
***

Valthorn was finally stirred into action when he could no longer ignore the rumbling in his stomach. The crusts he had brought with him were long gone but he had not mustered the courage to venture out of hiding yet. He vaguely wondered if it was possible to starve oneself to death intentionally. Without the two people in the world that meant the most to him, death almost seemed like a welcome thought, but not one he was particularly keen to attempt. Eventually he came to the realization that trying and failing was no worse than staying here where failure was inevitable. He decided to take his chances on the world unknown.   

He had just taken the first tentative step out from his flimsy shelter when a cat leapt out from the shadows in front of him. It was chasing a mouse and pounced on it a few feet from where he stood. He swatted at the cat and it bounded off with a snarl. He looked down where the mouse lay, injured, struggling to move and labored to breathe. Valthorn was filled with pity for the tiny creature as he knelt beside it.

“I think I know how you are feeling, little one,” Valthorn said, stroking the soft fur. It lay injured but it did not concede to its fate; it was still struggling to escape. As he watched the little creature he was suddenly sure he understood its desperate instinct. It was simple – it _wanted_ to live, and so did he. They might be broken and alone in the world, but it wasn’t giving up and maybe he wouldn’t either. Death might be easy to give in to, but he didn’t want to. Above all else, he wanted to find Jaena someday.

Valthorn pulled himself up from where he sat and dusted off his clothes. He took the mouse and laid it in a pile of leaves nestled by the wind in a crux of wooden planks. He watched it a moment longer before gathering himself up. “Good luck to you,” he whispered as he turned back to the street opening.

He ventured out from the alleyway into the bright, busy street of the central marketplace. It was hard to keep himself from being jostled in with the motion of the people around him. He looked around trying to discern which way to go. Everywhere there were shouts and unfamiliar sounds and smells. He hadn’t gone far when he ducked out of the crowd again and hid behind a large vender cart to catch his breath.

He sat there a moment trying to get his bearings when he noticed all the ripe fruit stacked on top of the cart. His stomach rumbled at the thought of sinking his teeth into the juicy flesh of the fruit. He glanced around the side to where the vendor stood talking to the crowd of people oblivious to the little elf. Carefully, Valthorn reached up and jostled one corner of the fruit display so a few apples and peaches dislocated and cascaded down the front. There was an angry shout as the merchant ran to collect them. Valthorn was quicker. He grabbed an apple in each hand and scampered off again amidst the crowd, hidden from sight by the flowing skirts of passing ladies.

He made his way back to where he had left the little mouse. It was gone when he got there. Whether it had escaped or the old tom had come back to claim its prize he couldn’t know. He preferred to think that, despite the odds, his little friend had lived. Valthorn curled up amongst the leaves and ravenously ate the fruit he had stolen. With food in his stomach he felt renewed. There was a prickle of pride in his chest at the way he had outsmarted the fruit vendor and his ability to procure the impromptu meal for himself. As he replayed the events in his mind his confidence grew.

This world was foreign to him, but not impossible to navigate. He made a promise then to himself and to the memory of his mother: He would not give up, no matter how bleak the odds seemed. _I want to live_ , he reminded himself, _and I want to find something that makes life worth living again_. One step at a time, one day at a time, and someday his path would lead him back to the thing he wanted more than anything. Someday he would find Jaena.


	3. Chapter 3

After a couple days, Valthorn started to get the hang of his new life as much as any child thrown into dire circumstances could. He realized quickly that there would be no handouts. While some of the human ladies looked with sympathy upon him there it never amounted to any actual gold or silver from their pockets. No, it was him and him alone that would save himself in these streets, and whatever measures he needed to ensure that, he would do.

His trick with the vendors worked easily enough but he had to be careful. He went to the same booth twice one day and almost got himself caught, escaping at the last moment with only a firm swat of the man’s walking stick. And of course, the merchants only worked during they daylight. The nights were long, cold, and hungry when he was sustained only on fruit and bread crusts throughout the day.

There were a number of children – mostly human boys – that begged openly in the marketplace. He had a run-in with them before long that put to rest any thoughts of joining them. He sat down momentarily to adjust the wrappings around his ankles one afternoon unaware of how close he was to the coterie of other beggar children. A noble woman passing by mistook Valthorn as one of them. In a rare show of sympathy, she took pity on the small elf and handed him a two-silver piece. Valthorn was taken by surprise and looked up at her with wide wary eyes. Only after she shook the coin in front of him did he tentatively reach up and take it. The lady chuckled to her companion and pat Valthorn on the head like an adorable pet before shuffling off again. Valthorn turned the coin over in his hand and wondered how much it was worth. He looked across the way where meat was skewered and smoking across a fire and a wild grin spread across his face. Blindly, he skipped over toward the cart, stomach rumbling inside of him, and he ran smack into one of the human beggar boys.

This boy was as ragged as the rest of them but he stood tall with an air of implied authority. It was obvious that he commanded the attention and subservience from the rest of the gathered beggar boys. Above all, there was a fierce anger and malevolence that shone in the older boy’s eyes as he stared down at Valthorn.

“You think you can just waltz into our market, knife-ear?” The boy pushed Valthorn by the shoulders and he stumbled backward. On either side the other boys were closing him. “You trying to take up all the coin that b’longs to us? We live here and we need them to eat. By the looks of your pretty clothes there, you’re just passing through. Ain’t ya, boy? _Just passing through_?”

Valthorn was quiet but he well understood the boy’s intent that he was not welcome here. Valthorn was a new face – competition – and evidently not wanted in or around their racket. Valthorn took a tentative step back but made a fist tightly around the coin nonetheless.

“It’s mine,” he said simply, a deep knot of tension winding his stomach. “The lady gave it to me.”

The boy broke into unexpected laughter. “Hear this, boys? The knifey thinks something _b’longs_ to him!” Then he wheeled his attention back around to Valthorn and tightened his own fists. “Oh Maker, boy, you gots a lot t’ learn.”

The flanking boys crowded in front and blocked Valthorn’s view of their leader. A moment later a fist punched into his stomach and sent pain shooting up through his body. Valthorn yowled as another fist hit him in the jaw sending him down into the dirt. Valthorn curled up in a ball, the coin all but forgotten in the pain that flared and recoiled through him as each hit landed on a different part of his body. He tasted dirt and saline tears for an instant before there was only a darkness surrounding him.

When he woke up later he found himself amid discarded boxes and trash in a dusty alleyway. The boys and the coin the noble lady had given him were long gone, but the pain of his injuries still tingled sharply with every movement. Valthorn sat up gingerly. He tested out his arms and legs, finding them bruised by otherwise ok.  All in all, he seemed to have escaped without serious injury. Either way he’d be sure to steer clear of them all the same in the future.

Valthorn pulled himself up and made his way out into the all but empty marketplace street. It was nearly full dark and he’d need a place to sleep for the night. He paused and turned his head slowly side to side. For a moment, he thought he had caught a whiff of the smoked meat. It was long past the time the evening vendors would have packed away their wares. He dismissed the odor as mere delusions of hunger or of the aftershocks of his injuries but again as the breeze blew, the hint of cooking came to him. He walked across the road to where the remains of a campfire smoldered. Sure enough, there in with the coals, were bits of charred meat remaining and tendrils of fat that hadn’t quite burned away. Scraps of meat that were too small to be sold and pieces too burned to be appetizing for the market now made Valthorn ravishingly hungry.

Agonizingly slow to his famished stomach he reached for one piece, careful to watch for any remaining heat from the fire. The charred wood was cool to the touch. He popped the stringy little bit into his mouth, barely enough for half a mouthful, and chewed. It was charred almost beyond recognition and had the sandy grit of coal on it but it was food. No, not just food, it was _meat_. Despite the lingering soreness of his injuries, he felt a tremendous sense of victory. He picked through the remains of the fire and found a half dozen other little pieces he equally devoured.

The meat eased the growl of his stomach but he had stumbled upon something more important than a temporary appeasement to his hunger. Out of the charred remnants of the fire an idea had been born in his mind. Humans were careless, wasteful with their excesses, and in that single fact could be his salvation. There were dozens of places in the city that sold food each day and if half of them were as lazy with their scraps as this merchant had been, Valthorn would be able to eat forever.

  
***  
  
Over the following days and weeks Valthorn honed his gathering into a deliberate sequence of trips through the open city streets. He became familiar with the patterns of trade and the habits of his favorite vendors. Each evening he seemed to end up in the same place: a local tavern by name of The Pearl. He knew at that dusk each night a lovely young woman came out and dumped the day’s kitchen waste into the sewer out back. To everyone else it was only waste, but to him the potato skins and carrot tops, sometimes even bruised fruit or turkey bones, was a veritable feast.

Valthorn sat crouched behind a number of boxes, watching the back door of the tavern. Sure enough, the woman appeared dragging the bucket of scraps outside to the canal grate. There she overturned it and spilled the contents out. Valthorn’s eyes lit up as he recognized the carcass of a chicken which the woman was pushing down through the bars of the grate it was caught on. Satisfied, she kicked the bucket once more to release any last clinging scraps and walked back to the kitchen, the door clanking shut behind her.

Valthorn waited. He counted to ten slowly in his head, trying to make sure that she was entirely gone before he ventured out of hiding. The thought of the chicken made him impatient though and before he had finished counting, his feet were moving underneath of him and out to the grate. He got down on his knees and peered down. There had not been any rain the last few days so the canal was barely more than a trickle and the pile of garbage was sitting just as the woman had left it. On top was his chicken prize and he reached down hungrily for it. His arm was just long enough to snag one upturned bone. He lifted it delicately, hoping the greasy bones wouldn’t slip or break and drop the entirety of it down beyond his reach.

He grinned with victory as he got it close enough to gain a firm hold over it. To his delight he saw it had not been cleaned particularly well and pieces of meat still cling to a number of the bones. He pulled the little strips off and began eating it. So invested was he in his prize that he did not hear the door open again, or the hasty footsteps of the woman as she approached. He only pulled his head up at the last moment, alert too late, and felt his collar being yanked up and away from the ground. The carcass banged against the grate and the bones he’d been holding slid out of his grasp. He yelped more for the loss of his meal than the fear of punishment.

The woman turned him to look at her and asked, “Who are you?”

“Nobody ma’am.” Valthorn avoided her gaze, trying his best to look meager and apologetic.

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she looked over the small, shabby boy. His eyes were slightly sunken and his skin had an olive tinged pallor to it she knew couldn’t be healthy. His clothes were soiled and felt thick with grime under her hands. The woman crouched down so that she was at eye level with him. She turned his face up to her and asked sympathetically, “Do you have a home, boy?”

Valthorn looked at her and shook his head slowly side to side. He didn’t quite trust her but he wasn’t sure he could escape with a lie about this either. They stood like that for a moment, regarding each other and wondering what the other would do next. Finally, she stood up and said, “Come with me.”

She took one of his greasy hands in hers and led him toward the door. Valthorn allowed himself to be led on. He should have been uneasy at the prospect but strangely found that he was not afraid. She was a good deal younger than he initially thought, no more than ten years older than him and perhaps even younger than that. Young enough that he felt his chances were good of receiving sympathy and help at her hands rather than being running him off with brooms like some other women he’d encountered. Maybe, he thought, she might even have some of that chicken left.

As they entered the kitchen, the woman called to the maids cleaning and asked them to fetch buckets of water for the bath barrel. The two servants exchanged glances between themselves and then at the boy but obeyed the command without question. The woman leading him handed a Valthorn a towel and told him to remove his dirty clothes. He looked blankly at her.

“You understand King’s speech, don’t you boy?” She looked sharply at him. Valthorn nodded his head. “Well you’re as dirty as a pig in a mudpit. I intend to give you a bath.”

Valthorn just blinked. “Inside?”

“Yes…” Now the woman looked more curious than exasperated. “Where else would you bathe? In the canals?”

Valthorn felt a pang of displacement under the woman’s gaze and remained silent. Undeterred, she returned to her task of gathering the bathing supplies.

“Rivers,” he said quietly.

At this a light of understanding appeared in the woman’s eyes. Placing her hand lightly on Valthorn’s chin, she turned his head to look closer at his ears and then back to his fine facial features.

“You’re not from the Alienage, are you? You’re a Dale, then?” This time he nodded.

“Come on,” she said, taking his hand again and leading him to another room, this one small and apart from the rest of the servant’s quarters. There was a large barrel against one wall, a metal basin with a bar of soap and steel grating that led down into darkness, presumably the canal he’d seen outside.

The maid appeared with two buckets of water and dumped them into the barrel. Meanwhile, the woman unbuttoned Valthorn’s shirt with care and removed it. She unclasped his underclothes and peeled them down to his waist. He hunched his shoulders together self-conscious in front of this strange woman. She chuckled so softly it was barely audible and smiled at the boy.

She dipped a cloth into the fresh, warm water and took one of Valthorn’s arms, washing it with the water and the soap from the basin. Then she splashed some more water over it, and gasped in mock surprise, grinning. “Maker! I don’t believe it! I can see your skin under all that grime!”

Valthorn laughed and smiled shyly. “Here,” she said, and gave him the bar of soap and the washcloth. “Take the rest of your clothes off and wash yourself. Put the soap through your hair too. I will try to find you some clean clothes in the meantime.”

She stepped out the room and closed the door. She waited a moment until she heard the splashing resume and then, pleasantly amused, she went off on her search for clothes.

***

Valthorn’s wooden spoon scraped the bottom of his bowl hardly two minutes after the young woman had placed it before him. It might have been even faster except that he had to keep pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his arms to keep them from dragging through the creamy stew broth. The best that she had found was a sleeved tunic one of the dwarves had outgrown, but it was ill fitting on the thin elven boy. It bunched in all the wrong places and hung down too far in the front. He looked like he was being swallowed up in the light brown cloth, not that he particularly minded.

“I’m Sanga,” she said finally. She sat opposite him at one end of the long wooden dining table. They were alone in the hall and her voice echoed slightly in the open air.

The boy paused midstroke and the spoon dangled just under his chin as he shifted his eyes up to look at her. She was pretty in a fairly ordinary way but her dark eyes were sharp and intelligent. She wore an expression on her face that was hard to read, a mix between amusement and concern. Then, remembering his meal, Valthorn shoved the spoon into his mouth again and mumbled through the food, “Do you live here?”

She smiled. “I do. My father owns this tavern.”

“Oh.” The last spoonful disappeared. “Can I have another bowl?”

“I reckon you will make yourself sick with too much food at once.”

“But it was good,” he whined.

Sanga took the wooden bowl and disappeared into the kitchen. A moment later she returned with it, half-filled this time and offered it to him. He reached for it but she pulled back instead. “Tell me your name first.”

He looked hurt briefly and then conceded; a small price to pay for the hot steaming stew she held. “It’s Valthorn.”

“Slower this time,” she said and set the bowl down. He did begin to eat it slower – slightly. She watched him with interest and sipped on the water she had before her. There was something on her mind but she tried a couple times before finally decising on how to approach the question. Finally she settled for simplicity. “Would you like to stay with us awhile?”

Valthorn stopped eating again, suddenly frozen with indecision. He felt they had at last come to the point she’d been trying to get at all evening but it was still strange to him. He didn’t understand her interest in him or his predicament.  “Why?” he asked warily.

“Why not?” She smiled that interested but patient smile again. “You need a home and I have no younger siblings to entertain me.” She paused, considering. “We could be friends.”

Valthorn lowered the spoon. The young woman had been nothing but kind towards Valthorn but there was a hint of something dangling just out of reach that troubled him. There was an implication hiding in her otherwise pleasant smile that Valthorn couldn’t read. It bothered the edges of his subconscious but in the end he pushed the negative thoughts away. He wanted to accept her offer. “Don’t you have to ask your father?”

She shrugged. “He won’t mind. Besides, I get lonely around here sometimes. I am the youngest one in the house and father’s always preoccupied with his business… his business people coming and going.” She waved a hand as if it was a trifling matter, one that was a bother to her more than it interested her. “I help the kitchen servants to stay busy and keep out of his way.”

Valthorn nodded, interested now. “What about your mother?”

Sanga frowned at the question. “She died a long time ago.”

“Oh,” Valthorn frowned too and then commiserating, he said, “So did mine.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” she said. Once again Valthorn felt an odd sensation of implicit cunning mixed in with her sympathy and kindness. “Well, that’s all the more reason I think you should stay.”

Her smile widened as she reached over and stroked his arm in a kind, reassuring way. It was the first time since his mother died that he had allowed anyone to glimpse the tender and vulnerable soul inside of him that needed nurturing. Somehow, she knew his pain; she knew how he had struggled and now she was offering him a way out. His wariness returned for one last attempt to dissuade him from the path he was going toward before fatigue overrode it. With his stomach full for once, drowsiness was beginning to set in. Satisfied, he persuaded himself to forget his reservations. She would offer him a nice place to sleep – a real bed perhaps with blankets and pillows – and a meal again in the morning. Of this, he was sure and these unspoken promises were too enticing for the boy to pass up.

“I think I could stay for awhile,” he said. “If it’s okay.”

“Of course it is,” she said. She put her arms around him in a tender embrace. She was warm and the cloth of her dress was scented with the kitchen and the fire. Her hands stroked his hair and the invitation to rest was too strong. For better or worse he trusted her and in her arms he let his eyes droop shut. He was smiling as he slipped into sleep, barely noticing her carrying him over to the room than would soon become his own.


	4. Chapter 4

“Oy, Valthorn! In here with that water bucket! Hurry up!”

Valthorn struggled with the heavy wooden bucket, dragging it as fast as he could across the barroom floor. He felt the scowling gaze of the servant boring into him he approached. Try as he may, the bucket was too heavy for him and the water continually slopped over the sides. Looking back he could a distinctive trail across the floor from the washroom when he had drawn the water.

“I’m sorry, Miss Amaranda, it was heavy.” Valthorn bit back his frustration and tried his best to sound apologetic. He was supposed to obey the older servants and help them without question and for the most part he did. He hated when Amaranda asked him to do anything though because she was spiteful and intentionally gave him tasks he would have difficulty completing. That’s how it felt, at least.

“Heavy!” She scoffed without looking up from the floor she was mopping. “How many months you’ve been here and still as useless as the first day I met ya. Sanga’s gone and spoiled you with easy jobs.”

His cheeks flushed. “My jobs aren’t always easy.”

Amaranda scoffed. “Yes that’s exactly what I’d expect to hear from Sanga’s pretty little pet. Now run along and see what trivialities she’ll have you attend to today. Some of us have real work to do.” And with that, she swatted him away with her mop handle.

Valthorn didn’t need to be told twice. He scuttled away, leaving the miserable servant well alone to finish her work. His mood brightened as he skipped up the stairs to the dressing rooms above, peeking into each in turn to find his mistress. In a far bedroom, he found Sanga sitting at a writing table sealing a letter with hot wax. She smiled and beckoned him into the room with her.

“Done already?”

“Well… I don’t think Amaranda wants my help mopping anymore.” He held up his arms to show her his tunic well soaked through with water at which Sanga laughed good-naturedly. She smiled slyly, smoothing out a few wrinkles and straightening the collar of his shirt. “She only has herself to blame. She should learn to give a young boy more suitable tasks in the future.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to ask you about,” Valthorn said, turning to the parchments on her desk to hide the creeping blush on his cheeks. These documents were much more interesting than more housework anyway. “Whatcha writing?”

“Just a few letters.” And then, in response to his eager attention, “Well, it’s not for you, silly boy. Does this look like your name?”

Valthorn shrugged. “You know I can’t read any of this.”

Sanga picked her quill up. She wrote out Valthorn’s name on the parchment and showed him each letter. He took the quill and wrote his name in Dalish characters underneath it. Sanga chuckled. “Well, we shall never be able to write to each other unless one of us learns the other language.”

“Will you teach me?”

Sanga considered this request. She smiled at the boy and tucked a small braid behind his ear. “I suppose I could. I suppose there are many things I could teach you about.”

“Please,” Valthorn said nodding. “I’d like to learn.”

Though Sanga averted her eyes, she looked pleased and a smirk played up on her mouth. Her hand traced upward from his shoulder and caressed his cheek. “Well I couldn’t ask for a more agreeable and willing answer than that, my boy.”

Valthorn beamed. “Anything for you, my lady.”

For a moment she was quiet, pensive and rather content to enjoy some private joke that was otherwise lost on Valthorn. Finally she spoke again and handed him the letter she had just sealed. “I do have a task for you, actually. This letter needs to go to the Arl of Denerim. Do you know where his estate is?”

“Of course, Miss Sanga,” Valthorn laughed. “It’s hard to miss a huge gated and guarded estate in the middle of Denerim. Not that I’ve ever been inside of it. I can’t even imagine what that must be like inside of a manor like that!”

“Well here is your opportunity.” Sanga handed him the letter. “Take this to the Arl. It’s an important business matter pertaining to the Pearl. Carry it well and do not be distracted by the marketplace activities. You’ll be a good boy, I’m sure.”

He bowed, thanking her for the opportunity. He left straightaway, bounding off with the joy of his special privilege, taking only a minute to swing through the open room Amaranda had just finished mopping. He skipped across the floor leaving faint dusty footprints in his wake. Behind him he could hear her angry shouts but he took no notice; his good mood could not be broken.

Back in her bedroom, Sanga still sat at the table thinking. Valthorn had been with her for a little over a year now and had become a better and more dependable servant than she had ever imagined. Recently, she had begun to suspect that he could be even more than that, given the right motivation. The smirk returned to her lips after he had gone and she said to no one in particular, “Yes, I think you’ll be a very good boy indeed.”

  
***

Time passed in its enjoyable way admist the bustle of everyday life. It was easy to see, in retrospect, why Valthorn and Sanga got on so well: he had an easy and confident nature that tempered her meticulous and calculating one. He looked up to her and yet, she was neither patronizing nor heavyhanded in her approach. In many ways, they resembled friends more than servant and mistress, a fact that was not lost on the household. As long as her father simply chalked up her fancies to that of passing youth, they had little recourse but to watch from afar, however dissapprovingly they chose to do so.

Sange sauntered up one evening to Valthorn's doorway and peeked in. “Hey, what are you doing?”

Valthorn glanced up from his writing and shrugged. “Nothing really, why?”

“I’m going for a walk into the marketplace. Would you like to come with me?” She asked, too casually for the lateness of the evening. Her big brown eyes were mysterious as usual but there was a glint of something strange in them today. Valthorn couldn’t place it but it didn’t bother him either; he was used to her mysterious nature by now. And he never liked to pass up an opportunity to escape the dreary tavern kitchen.

“’Course,” he replied, gathering the papers and quill he’d been using and stuffed them into the small desk drawer. He grabbed his cloak and followed her out, jogging to catch up to her. Whatever was on her mind, she seemed in quite a hurry to leave the tavern. They had gone only a short way when she stopped and peered back at him with curiosity.

“Why are you walking all the way back there?”

Valthorn looked around him. “Well I… I always walk back here when I go out with you and your father.”

She considered this concept as novel as if she had been accompanied by him for the first time. “Well, my father isn’t here. It’s just the two of us. So you might as well walk up here with me and keep me company.”

“As you wish, Miss Sanga.”

They walked another dozen paces side by side when Sanga surprised him further by slipping her arm around his. Now he was the one who stopped abruptly, but she only gave his curious look the tiniest measure of response. “You are accompanying me, are you not?”

“Well, yes Miss, but…”

“And shouldn’t a lady have a man to walk with her in a busy, dangerous part of town?”

“Now you’re hardly a novice in these streets…”

“I would like you to escort me.” There was no room for further questioning of her intent in this command. She kept her eyes straight ahead as they continued their walk and gradually the awkwardness he felt subsided. It was a pleasant change to be regarded more like an equal by the few citizens passing by. It seemed that, in their eyes, something as trivial as being arm and arm with a human lady gave a nobility and respectability to his person that he otherwise lacked on his own. Emboldened by this newfound confidence he tightened his hold on her arm, in effect drawing her closer to him as they walked. For the first time that night Sanga’s mood relaxed and she smiled.

It was not until they were within sights of the city gates that Valthorn realized where they were at. They had completely bypassed the central marketplace and were now headed for the western city boundaries. Beyond the gates there were no shops or houses at all, just rows of flowering trees and half-cobbled roads that led out into the countryside.

“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Sanga said. Though they were alone now he wasn’t convinced the comment was particularly directed at him. They stood there a while, looking out into the expanse of greenery that lay just before them. Sometimes he almost forgot how green the world could be when all he saw was stone and metal and people all day.

“Do you come here often?”

She chuckled softly. “No, I usually don’t have time. Tonight is… well, I needed some fresh air. I needed to just… get away for a couple minutes. It’s nice sometimes to get away, wouldn’t you agree?”

Valthorn nodded. He knew all too well how confining and oppressive city life could be at times. They stood there side by side for a few moments without speaking. This place, the night, her confession just now… He couldn’t explain exactly what had changed but he felt that the normal boundaries that existed between them growing more fluid by the moment. Her hair blew gently in the evening breeze and he was tempted to brush it aside for her. He was just about to reach out when she asked a question that surprised him.

“Do you remember what life in the forest was like?”

He stood there stunned for a moment. “Sanga, you may as well ask if I remember how to breathe.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Even after all this time?”

“It’s only been a couple years,” he said. “Besides, some things are more important than time. It’s all still there in my heart – our people, the camp, my mother…The spirit of the forest is eternal.”

He closed his eyes and felt its presence inside himself. Memories and visions of his home floated in his memory and a smile came over him. When he opened his eyes again he found Sanga staring at him, unabashedly, even jealously. He frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she lied. She shook her head, embarrassed, as if she had intruded into personal thoughts and feelings that she had no business in. “I shouldn’t have asked you that…”

“It’s ok. You can tell me,” he offered and placed a hand on her shoulder. She turned away from his offer.

“You’ve been here for years, in a place that was foreign and as different from your home as possible, and yet…” She frowned and looked down the road looking for her words. “You are as innocent and kind of heart as the day I met you. Don’t you ever resent the path that life has put you on?”

He took a deep breath and thought before answering. “Yes, sometimes. But I have what I need to survive and I am happy mostly. My mother would have wanted that… for me to be happy, I mean. I am content for now.”

“For now,” Sanga repeated hollowly.

“That’s not what I meant.” He wanted to continue, to clarify his last statement but his jaw clenched tight as a measure of guilt ran through him. Hadn’t that been what he meant? He didn’t want to live at the Pearl forever. He had grander plans for his life and things he wanted to accomplish. _Someday_ was his mantra, and someday he did mean to leave. He found it hard to look directly at Sanga and felt she had sensed this about him before she had asked.  

“It’s just that I know you don’t belong here. In the city, that is.” She took his hands and looked directly into his eyes. There was a plea written clearly in her eyes but he could not decipher whether it was meant for him or herself.  “Why don’t you leave?”

“Are you telling me that you want me to go?”

“No!” She gasped, slightly shocked by her own emphasis. “No, I don’t want you to go. I was just curious, that’s all. I mean, if you found yourself… trapped… in a life you didn’t want, would you fight it? Or would you accept that this was the path you were meant to take?”

“You make it sound so easy. Like I have a lot of choice in the matter.” Valthorn turned away. “I can’t leave, Sanga. I have nowhere else to go.”

He felt the same reassuring hand on his shoulder that he had offered a few moments before. “In a way, I know how you feel.”

Valthorn shook his head. “I don’t think you do.”

“Well tell me then,” she insisted. “You’ve been here for how long and never told me exactly what happened.”

“You really want to know?” She nodded, and he took a deep breath. Why had he buried this all so deeply inside himself? Why was he so hesitant to share that part of him with Sanga? He didn’t know the answers to these questions but there was a kind and frank expression on her face that finally convinced him.

“I was born and grew up in a Dalish camp, to the south in the Brecilian Forrest. I lived there with my mother until I was twelve. I loved living there until I lost a dear friend of mine. I have never really forgiven myself for letting that happen, I suppose. It changed… something, I don’t know. My mother became insistent that we leave shortly after that incident and I had to follow her. I never knew exactly why we left and she became sick on our journey to Denerim… she never really had a chance to tell me.”

Now that the words were out in the open he couldn’t be sure of what he had been so afraid of. Sanga was nothing but sympathetic and he found that he enjoyed her concern. He let her wrap him up in a hug as she murmured in his ear, “Oh, Valthorn, I’m so sorry.”

They began to walk again, further past the city gates and down the lane. They were alone along the path, the setting sun dancing between the treetops and casting beautiful red shadows on the scenery before them. The beauty of the dusk helped lighten the dark mood of their conversation. “And you can’t return to your camp?”

Valthorn dropped his head and sighed. “My people are nomadic so I don’t know where they are exactly. And even if I could return, I would not. An exiled elf has no place – no hope of acceptance – in the tribe. At least here…” He turned to her and smiled an anxious, hopeful look on his lips. “I have a new home here. As I said before, I am content.”

She squeezed his hand and wiped her eyes. “We are not so different, you and I. We may have been born of separate lives, but our plights are much the same. Here we find ourselves immersed in a life that was not of our choosing, and yet, we are not defeated. We choose to create what we can for ourselves out of the ashes and hope that happiness reveals itself in time.”

Valthorn stopped and sat down on the grass, leaning against a fencepost. Sanga did likewise. They faced the last remnants of the setting sun together and once again Sanga hooked her arm into Valthorn’s. “I’m glad I have you, Valthorn.”

He smiled at the unexpected and long awaited statement. “Me too, Sanga.”

They sat together in the quiet and watched the world wind down in front of their eyes. 

“How long will we have to wait, do you think? When will this happiness appear?”

Sanga leaned against him. On a whim, he took the opportunity to brush her hair away from her face as he had wanted to do before. “Oh, I think the happiness is already here. It’s up to us to find it.”

They sat there on the cool grass until long after the last rays of sunlight had gone. They watched the stars appear out of the blackness of the night above and the moon that revealed itself to light their way just enough for them to make their way home much later, arm in arm.

That night marked the first time that the two had seen each other in a different light, far beyond the bonds that held them within the confines of the tavern. They had seen in each other’s eyes an intelligent and sensitive person, with trouble and heartache closer to their own than they had ever dared to imagine. The need for solace is a powerful motivator for intimacy and for the first time they realized that they could be more than mere companions for each other. They could be exactly what the other needed to soothe the ache in their soul they had been individually nurturing for so long.


End file.
